


Provincial Matters: A Strange Sweet Sound Story Collection

by madame_faust



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: A collection of interrelated oneshots about Erik's happy childhood with his intact family, various goodnatured townsfolk, with a smattering of troubles of his own devising.





	1. Easy to Get Used To I

**Author's Note:**

> 'Strange Sweet Sound' was essentially born of a desire for me to give Erik a decent background and a somewhat realistic look at life in the 19th century with a disfigured child born to two functioning, well-adjusted adults. The name 'Erik' was one, in this timeline, that he chose after he was hired on by a traveling fair since (broad-minded though his parents might be) he figured no one would like the world at large to know that they had a circus freak in the family.

The men Celia Vincent hired to move house for her left the place an utter disaster - oh, certainly they’d managed to get the furniture into the house, which was more than Celia and her four-month-old son could have accomplished on their own - but none of it was arranged according to her liking. She was going to have to hire a second band of movers to supply for the deficiencies of the first!

It would have been different if her husband was there, she reflected, not for the first time. He wouldn’t have been too timid to give these rough workmen orders. ‘Please, could the bed be facing the window and not the wall?’ or ‘I would rather you placed the cabinet against the wall, rather than in the middle of the floor.’

Still, the place was moved-into. It was up to her to begin the exhausting task of settling in - that was going to prove tricky. The village of Saint Martin was one of those cozy little hamlets people loved to write novels about. Close enough to the city of Rouen so that its residents weren’t totally cut off from the outside world, but far enough afield that they all knew each other and the women thought nothing of poking their heads into a neighbor’s open kitchen window to borrow a cup of sugar.

Well.  _If_  the neighbor had been in residence for at  _least_  ten years - possibly fifteen, just to be sure. The disaster of the house was distressing, but only for Celia personally - she doubted that she would be doing much entertaining. A single lady turning up abruptly in a house meant to house a family with an infant in tow would produce a bit of gossip, a bit of suspicion regardless of the ring she wore on her right hand.

“I think we’ll be much on our own, Henri,” she informed her son who was sleeping contentedly in his cradle, unconcerned about the disarray. “Perhaps, by the time you’ve finished school, I’ll have one or two friends to take tea with…”

But a rapid tattoo on the door disturbed her dour monologue. A caller? She had no idea where the clock was (another victim of the move), but the sun was still tolerably high in the sky. Three? Four?

“Who could that be?” she asked Henri, who did not respond, of course. Smoothing her dress and patting her hair (another disaster, but she had no time to re-pin it and had misplaced her hand mirror), Celia strode to the front hall and cautiously opened the door.

On the other side stood a stranger - a tall, slender woman with a great quantity of dark hair held back in a snood. An old-fashioned accessory, to be sure, suggestive of grandmotherliness, but the woman only seemed a few years older than Celia herself. Presumably a neighbor, the she smiled briefly which lent softness to an otherwise severe face - she was undoubtedly attractive, but in an austere way, like the marble coolness of a statue. Nevertheless she had lovely warm brown eyes and, most touchingly, a basket on her arm, filled with a loaf of bread, butter in wax paper, a shaker of salt, a jar of dark red preserves, and a bottle of wine. A gift.

“Good afternoon, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” the neighbor said, a touch brisk, but not unkind. “I am Myriam Astruc, but don’t mind about that, everyone in town calls me Marie - I live in the house down the lane. White plaster, blue shutters, stone gate. I thought you might like some provisions, being new to town. Moving is a frightful business, isn’t it?”

Celia was just as grateful for the commiseration as she was for the loaf. Thanking the lady - Madame Astruc - profusely, she took the basket and and invited her in for tea (although the stove was unlit and likely needed a good scouring before she tried to use it).

Madame Astruc, sensibile of the difficulty, politely refused tea, but did take a minute to sit and chat. She saw the cradle and immediately walked over, crouching down beside it.

“Oh, what a pretty baby,” she said, softly. “I knew you had a little one, but I wasn’t sure how old. Sorry, dearie, when you’ve got some teeth in that fine little head of yours, I’ll make you some bread.”

Madame Astruc rose on one quick movement and took a seat on a dining room chair, without commenting that such a chair had no place in a parlor. Celia was liking her more and more. Indeed, she was slightly in awe of her, this generous, handsome neighbor who was her first guest. Despite the simple gown she wore, Madame Astruc exuded a kind of effortless elegance - grace. An ineffable quality of always being in control of one’s self and one’s surroundings.

Celia busied herself with putting the bread away - she offered to cut Madame Astruc a slice, if she would not have any tea, but again, the lady declined and Celia again felt a surge of gratitude. The knives were probably in the bedroom.

Settling down on a poorly placed armchair, Celia was beginning to relax - Henri was still enjoying his nap, she had a guest, but then Madame Astruc, after some light chatter about the weather (unseasonably warm, but she was not complaining), and the neighborhood (provided of all the amenities one could want, save a public ballroom), asked, “Is it only yourself and your child?”

“Yes,” Celia confirmed, lowering her eyes to the floor, twisting her wedding ring to draw attention to the fact that she did  _have_  a wedding ring. “My husband was the manager of a factory - they cast pots in Rouen. There was a fire.’

Nodding sympathetically, as though a suspicion had been confirmed, Madame Astruc said she was sorry for her loss and inquired if she had any relations in the area.

“My brother owns a farm, a few miles away,” Celia replied, gesturing vaguely toward the window, as if pointing it out. “He invited us - myself and little Henri - to live with him and his wife, but they have five children already and I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Well, if you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” Madame Astruc offered immediately. Celia nodded and smiled vaguely, the appropriate response to a generous offer that was  _not_  meant to be taken seriously…but evidently Madame Astruc was entirely genuine.  

“I can send my boy over to do little chores or incidentals,” she continued, having charted the whole plan out in a matter of seconds. “The school being closed for the season, I like to keep him out of mischief. He doesn’t look it, but he’s a very strong, sturdy child - nine years old. I can send him over tomorrow, he’d be happy to help with anything you might need.”

Such an offer was beyond anything Celia hoped when she stepped off the carriage.  “That would be wonderful - I’m afraid I could not pay him, just yet, but I could provide a luncheon for him, just as soon as the stove is cleaned and - ”

But whatever she said scarcely registered with Madame Astruc; she had already made up her mind.

“I’ll tell him to come first thing in the morning to help you with the stove,” Madame Astruc nodded to herself, settling the matter. “Just be sure he confines himself to cleaning! He’s his father’s son and the two of them love nothing more than taking things apart to improve them - perfectly alright when it’s my cuckoo clock, but absolutely not permissible to direct such attentions to your stove!”

Celia laughed, but not too long; something about Madame Astruc’s expression made her think that a few too many cuckoos had been sacrificed to science before the final improvements were made. “I’m sure he’ll be a great help.”

“He can be,” Madame Astruc confirmed with a rueful smile. “ When he likes. I’ll remind him to follow orders tomorrow before he comes. His name is Isaac, and as far as luncheon goes, you may send him back to me or give him a piece of bread and butter - he eats like a bird, really, so don’t put yourself to too much trouble. Oh! And he’s very good with little children, so if you need him to mind your son for a few minutes here or there, he’ll be more than capable - he is very sweet with my younger girls.”

Little Isaac sounded like quite a marvel and Celia told Madame Astruc so as she walked her to the door at the conclusion of their visit. Eyes shining with maternal pride, she agreed that he did have his moments.

“He’ll be by as soon as he’s breakfasted,’ she said, empty basket back over her arm. She paused on the threshold as if just remembering something, “Oh, one other little thing - he’s of an unusual appearance. Isaac was born without a nose and is a bit curious-looking besides that. Once seen certainly not forgotten! But it’s very easy to become used to him. Well! I’ll leave you to settle in - such a pleasure to have met you!”

It was the one odd misstep in an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Really, how bad could the child possibly look? Apparently bad enough that his mother felt the need to warn strangers about him. That was a trifle…bizarre. To say the least.

But Celia was left very little time for reflection, so busy was she tending Henri once he woke, and trying to put the house into proper order as best she could. Madame Astruc said her son was strong - perhaps he could help her with some of the smaller pieces of furniture.

She was so fixated on the offer of help that when she rose the next morning, Celia had half-forgotten the odd little coda to her conversation of yesterday. It only came flooding back when she heard a rat-tat-tat on her door late in the morning as the church bells chimed the hour.

Celia tried to get a glimpse of him through the window, but the glass was too smudged; all she could see was the side of his head, the curve of an ear, and a mop of messy dark curls under a dark blue cap. The child appeared tall for nine - and terribly thin. Furniture-moving might be beyond him, despite his mother’s confidence.

 _Born without a nose_ , she reminded herself, that she might be braced for the child’s appearance.  _And curious-looking besides._

Celia opened the door, slowly, deliberately - and it took all of her good breeding not to slam it shut again. Good  _God!_  The mother had not  _lied_ , but neither had she adequately explained…but how could she explain…how could such a thing  _be?_

Mercifully the child spoke up, otherwise they were in danger of staring at each other until sundown. Distantly, Celia was grateful he took the initiative. She needed a moment to catch her breath.

‘Good-morning, madame,” the boy said, doffing his hat and bobbing his head in a motion that sent his curls flying every which way. “I’m Isaac Astruc - my mother told me to come, she said you had some tasks for me around the house.”

The voice was clear and he spoke well, with the direct assurance typical of children of that age. Yet for all that, Celia found it tremendously difficult to look at him and see a  _child._  He reminded her of a little winged skull from an ancient burying ground. His face did not have the ordinary chubby smoothness of a small boy, but sharp, jutting cheekbones and chin. There  _was no nose_ , just as his mother said. Only an awful hole in the middle of his face, bifurcated by a recessed piece of flesh and bone that ought  _not_  have seen the light of day. The sallow complexion and thin lips did not indicate the bloom of either youth or health.

Looking him squarely in the eye was no help. His hair - the only ordinarily thing about him! -  fell down his forehead - bony and prominent - into the strangest mis-matched eyes she’d ever seen. Celia had known some few people who had one eye blue and the other green, but though  _this_ child left eye was blue, it was pale and diseased-looking. Its companion was not green at all, but a luminous dark yellow color, like jaundiced skin.

No wonder the mother had said something! If this child had knocked on the door, unannounced, she’d have forgotten herself entirely, shut it in his face and grabbed a crucifix!

But announced he was, standing patiently, waiting to be given his marching orders. Celia’s mouth was oddly dry and when she opened it, no sound came out.

“Maman said your stove needed cleaning,” Isaac spoke up again, since clearly she wasn’t going to prove herself a winning conversationalist. “Do you have a scrubbing brush? Or I can run home and fetch one, if you like.”

_Home? Where? A crypt?_

No. No, he lived in the house with the white plaster walls and the blue shutters. Madame Astruc had said and Celia herself even marked it, for it had a charming little stone wall enclosing the garden. She tried to remind herself that, in spite of his looks, he was only an ordinary boy living in an ordinary house. And she’d  _agreed_ that he should come, been  _grateful_  at the prospect. And yet…

“Y-yes,” Celia stammered at last. “Go home.”

Another quick nod and he was off, running down the lane, shirt coming untucked and flying behind him.

Celia let out a breath and sagged against the door. Sending him away, if only for ten minutes, felt utterly necessary. She needed to compose herself before he came back.

 _Pull yourself together, Celia_! she ordered herself.  _The mother was ever so kind and the boy seems…helpful. Helpful and polite_.

From the back, he might have been any child, if a peculiarly long and slender one. As careless as any boy, he darted out in front of an old man, driving a cart pulled by a plodding donkey.

“Whoa, there Isaac!” the man shouted at him as the donkey stalled. “Look where you’re going, lad! Oh, not  _you_ , you silly ass! Giddap, let’s walk on - walk  _on_.”

 _Easy to get used to_ , his mother said, but Celia was not sure that she  _could_. She glanced over at Henri in his cradle and silently thanked  _God_  for her son. To think that a child - any child! Might look like  _that_  and yet live!

Isaac returned much sooner than she would have liked, armed with scrubbing brush, clad in flower-printed apron that was too big for him, and holding a bundle of little wooden sticks under his arm.

“Maman told me to bring kindling - and she told me not to get too dirty,” he informed her, gesturing to the arpon with the brush, assuring her that this was  _not_  his chosen piece of attire. Isaac certainly was quite a self-assured fellow, no sooner did she step back from the door than he entered the house as if he had every right to be there. Which he  _did_ , Celia kept reminding herself. She’d no one to blame for his presence other than herself.

Isaac’s eerie eyes lighted on the cradle and before she could stop him he crossed over to where Henri lay and grinned at him - he was missing a few teeth which only made him look more like a ghoul. “Hello, there! What’s your name? Are you a boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” Celia said, hurrying over before…before…well, she did not know what she feared. That the baby would cry, at least, upon beholding such a thing as that leering over him. “Henri.”

Isaac put his tools down and crouched on the floor, just as his mother had done. In a motion too quick for her eyes to catch, he produced something shiny and metallic - a fishing lure - and dangled it just out of the baby’s reach.

“Good-morning, Henri!” he cooed cheerfully into the cradle. “You seem like a very nice baby - I’ve got two sisters, they’re alright, but I think Maman and Papa ought to have a boy next. Then we’ll be even.”

Privately, she was shocked that his parents had more children after him; one seemed enough…then she was struck with the horrifying question: did they all look like  _him?_  The mother seemed ordinary enough - even pretty! What on earth did the  _father_  look like?

To Celia’s astonishment, Henri was not at all distressed to see a miniature skeleton waving his skinny hands over his face. On the contrary, he smiled at the attention and waved his little arms around, opening and closing his fist. In a flash, the lure was gone and Henri latched onto Isaac’s smallest finger, drawing it into his mouth. Celia let out a small gasp as Isaac allowed himself to be gnawed on.

“My hands are clean,” he informed her, as if dirty fingers was Celia’s first concern. “Maman  _insists_ , before meals, after meals, before I go out, after I come back in. Papa says we ought to own a soapworks.”

With his back to her and his attention directed downward, Celia found herself smiling. Perhaps one could become used to him…but then he turned and looked up at her, grinning, and her stomach turned over. She forcibly steadied her nerves, reminded herself that he was  _only_  a boy and that it was very kind of his mother to send him to help. Regular conversation might be out of the question, but she could tolerate having the child in her house. Incredible that Henri had taken such a liking to him when his mother could hardly stand the sight of him.

“The stove…” she said, gesturing helplessly toward the kitchen. Isaac nodded and gently removed his fingers from Henri’s mouth.

“Yes, madame, I’ll clean it for you - I’ll light it too, if you’d like, I have very good luck with getting the flame to catch,” he said proudly. Then he wiggled his stick-like fingers at the baby, “Good-bye, Henri, I’ll see you soon.”

For half an hour, Isaac worked diligently in the kitchen and Celia puttered around the living room, grateful for the distance, but she kept the door open, in case he needed anything; he could call to her, rather than come into the room proper. For her part, she occupied herself scrubbing the grime and dust off the window casements. The house wanted airing, but she was not going to lift the windows and let the wind disturb all that dust, sweeping it further into the room. Sleeves rolled up, she got to work, oddly set on her task. Ordinarily Celia hated the drudgery of housework, she much preferred to cook and sew, but she’d completed nearly all the windows without a care, nodding her head along and tapping her toe as if she had musical accompaniment.

It was only when she’d finished the last window in the parlor that she realized she  _was_  being serenaded; Isaac had been singing to himself as he went about his work, so softly that she’d scarcely heard it. Merely felt it, winding round the door, vibrating through the floorboards.

“ _Cadet Rouselle a trois maisons_  
_Cadet Rouselle a trois maisons_  
 _Qui n’ont ni poutres ni chevrons_  
 _C’est pour loger les hirondelles_  
 _Que direz vous Cadet Rousselle_

 _Ah! Ah! Ah! Oui, vraiment  
Cadet Rouselle est bon enfant_!”

Laying aside her rag and duster, Celia crept toward the kitchen. Isaac made quick work of the stove, the outside was clean and his head was halfway in the oven, which explained the vibrations.

It was a simple - even irritating - little tune. Sung by a thousand schoolchildren over a hundred years, yet it seemed brand new to her. Celia was hardly what one would call musical, but even she recognized that his voice was extraordinary. How could such an ugly child sing like that? How could  _any_  child sing like that? She imagined any child who exhibited such talent was most likely found in a boys’ choir in Austria, not on his hands and knees in a French provincial kitchen!

Isaac emerged then, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He’d taken off his cap when he plunged into the stove and shoved it back on his head, providing no relief to her view of his his face. It no less awful than it had been when he arrived, but with the music in the air, it was tolerable to look at. Strange, but tolerable.

The floorboards creaked underfoot and Isaac looked up at her, one of his sharp little cheeks smudged with soot. “All done, Madame! Would you like me to light it?”

And just like that the spell was broken.

“No,” she said abruptly. His eyebrows rose at her tone and she gentled her voice, “No, thank you, Isaac, I’ll take care of it. Why don’t…why don’t you go back to your mother’s for luncheon?”

“Alright,” he agreed easily enough, rising to his feet and wiping his dirty hands on his apron. “Do you want me to come back afterward?”

A whole afternoon with that face might be more than her nerves could handle. “No thank you, Isaac, that’s very nice to offer…but…why don’t you have the afternoon to yourself. To play with…with your friends?”

It was really awful, she thought, that the last word ended as a question. She might have expected him to look abashed. To lower his deep-set eyes to the floor and confess that he had no friends. That not a soul loved him, save his mother and father. But on the contrary, his hideous face brightened and he smiled again, horribly.

“Thank you, madame!” he said cheerfully, gathering up his scrub brush, but leaving the kindling for her. “Lucien and Estelle said they were going to try to catch a squirrel and tame it! I bet them they couldn’t, but I want to see how they’re getting on with the trap.”

Lucien and Estelle. Maman. Papa. The man in the cart who shouted a warning to him as he would any other reckless child. The sisters. He was not so bereft as she thought. The knowledge would have been heartwarming if it wasn’t so inexplicable. Was the whole village a little myopic? Could they not  _see_  as she did?

Or was it as his mother said? That one could become used to him. That it was easy.

“Be careful,” Celia said automatically, trying her best to treat him as she would any other child. Maybe that was part of it, maybe the pretending was all. Who knew such a small village could boast such a bevy of accomplished actors? “Squirrels are not so pleasant as they look - they might bite.”

“Don’t worry, Madame,” Isaac assured her as he walked past her to the parlor. “I’m sure they won’t catch anything - maybe a rabbit, if I help them, and I’ve never known a rabbit to bite.”

The boy paused before he left to peer in at Henri; when he saw the baby was asleep, he made an exaggerated show of tip-toeing to the door as quietly as he could. Then he turned and whispered, “Tomorrow morning, Madame? I can be back at the same time. I could bring some toys for Henri that Anna-Lise - that’s my littlest sister - doesn’t have any use for.”

 _No, thank you_ , was on the tip of her tongue, but she paused.  _Pretend_ , she reminded herself. So long as she didn’t look at his face, he did cut rather a comical figure, stick-skinny and wearing his mother’s apron. He was bright and eager, as Madame Astruc said. Even endearing. So long as she looked anywhere but at his face.

“Yes, thank you, Isaac,” she addressed the air just above his head.  _Pretend. What if, God forbid, Henri looked as he did? How would you want_  him  _treated?_ “That will do nicely. I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	2. Coming Home I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like in Leroux, teenage Erik ran off with the circus (like you do), but in this 'verse he comes back.

It was after dark when he arrived, which suited him. He’d hitched a ride on an obliging farmer’s cart, coming back from town (the farmer had no idea and Erik fancied he didn’t weigh so much that he horses had to strain to pull him) and hopped off a mile from the village proper. There he glimpsed the spire of the church, black against the night sky, illuminated by the moon.

But even without the moon, in absolute darkness, Erik could have walked the path with quick, sure steps. He’d been back time and time again in his dreams. And the passing of three years had not changed a thing. There was the post office. The school. The green grocers. The livery stables. The small library maintained in the lower drawing room of one of the finer homes in the town proper, but he walked further out from the square, like a ghost between the buildings.

Not a soul stirred. He moved so quietly and stayed so much in shadow that he wondered if anyone knew he was there. He fancied not. He wondered if they were keeping their doors locked and windows latched; again he fancied not. The thought discomfited him, to know how easily they might be invaded, taken advantage of. _He_  would not, of course. But someone very like him might. Someone more desperate; someone with nowhere to go. 

Erik had somewhere to go, or at least he hoped he did.  _Did they get my letter?_  was a thought that had plagued him for days now, since his journey was begun.

The house he sought was not in the center of town, but neither was it located at the barren end of town, with the farms. At times the journey back seemed to take ages, but now he found himself walking down the lane almost abruptly. His steps did not quicken in glad anticipation. On the contrary, they slowed so that he was practically crawling the last few feet to the front gate. 

The latch released at the slightest pressure from his hand, swinging open noiselessly. Papa’s handiwork; he’d never let the house go to seed, not even in the absence of his only son. His little helper. Or at least, so he’d been, once.   
  
It was quiet, eerily so. There wasn’t a sound beyond the chirruping of the night insects; not a bark or growl from the dogs. Perhaps everyone was asleep. Perhaps it would be better if he came back tomorrow.

But the voices he’d left behind came back to him in a rush, urging him forward, to take those arduous, heart-pounding steps to the front door. It too was just as he remembered; the diamond-shaped window stared darkly at him, reflecting back the grubby whiteness of his mask. Erik averted his eyes instead to look at the bundle of dried lavender hanging just below. Lisette’s handiwork, he didn’t doubt; she liked everything just so. 

And of course, there were the Torah verses, reverently placed in their slanting wooden case just outside the entryway. That little box, which once hung so high over his head, now did not even reach his shoulder. Yet automatically, his fingers rose before he was conscious of the motion and touched the case, deliberately.  
   
An ancient Psalm rose up in his mind, 'G-d will protect your departure and your arrival from now and forever.' How easily it all came back, these things he thought he’d forgotten. Why it was as if he was coming in from a day of doing chores at the neighbor’s house. As if no time had passed.

The familiar action made him bold, but not too bold. The family - to a one- had a bad habit of knocking on a door while simultaneously opening it. Good fodder for creating embarrassing family memories, a worse than bad idea for entering a home in the middle of the night. Erik knocked, very gently. If no one answered, he thought he’d take it as a sign and try again tomorrow.

All at once a lamp flared in the sitting room and he found himself stepping back, away from the door, filled with sudden dread. What if they hadn’t gotten his letter? What if he was causing a terrible ruckus? What if they didn’t want him  _back_?

The door was yanked open by a tiny girl, younger even than Anna-Lise. That had to be the baby, Mathilde, who was not the baby any longer, coming hard on five years of age. She had flung the door aside with great force, but stepped back to take him all in. Her eyes - one gleaming amber brown and the other eerie pale blue, just like his - got wider and wider the longer she looked. At last they settled on his mask and she turned on her heel, running into the house shrieking.

“Maman! Maman! There’s a man at the door! Maman!”

Maman ran out from the kitchen, clad in nightclothes and slippers, and practically tripped over little Mathilde. 

“Hush!” she scolded her, pushing her tangled black curls over her shoulders. “Why are you awake and lighting the lamps? You’ll wake Papa - you’ll disturb the whole household and I’ve told you  _not_  to shout like that while the baby is sleeping!”

“But,  _Maman_ ,” Mathilde insisted, clutching her hand and urging her forward, digging bare little heels into the floor and pointing with her free hand. “There’s a  _man_  at the door!”

Maman’s eyes filled with disbelief and her mouth pursed in an expression Erik knew all too well. She was about to give Mathilde a severe scolding - if not a spanking - when she glanced up.

She went so pale that for a moment Erik was horrified at the thought that she might faint. 

 _I shouldn’t have come back_ , he thought, guts churning. This was his great nightmare coming true. This was why he wore the mask. No matter what the  _others_  said - that he was meant for more than endless travel and crowds, that he had a  _family,_  that he had a  _place_ , a part of him was sure that was no longer true. There was another child born in his absence. Mathilde didn’t remember him. And three years went a long way toward forgetting. Perhaps they were better off, he thought. Better off with his money and not his presence. 

Yet she remained upright. Myriam Astruc was not the sort to faint. Not when she’d borne five children living and one who looked as though he was  _not_. She was never one to fall to pieces, not his mother - he should have had more faith in her. And even if he felt compelled to flee, she had no intention of letting him.

It seemed Erik blinked and she was before him, wrapping him up in an embrace. He couldn’t have held her in return if he tried - she’d pinned his arms to his side as successfully as if she were a vice. Maman’s head  _collided_  with his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him, nearly sending them both sprawling into the street. But Erik remained upright - that was about all he could do. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered tightly against his chest, though Erik was absolutely sure she was  _not_  talking to him. Then Maman released him, reached up, grabbed his shoulders, attempted to pulling him down so they were on a level, “Come here, come here - what is this?”

She’d been about to kiss him when she noticed - had she only just noticed? - the mask. 

Then Maman pulled back, feeling his arms, poking him in the stomach and making him squirm and glaring at the mask as though trying to destroy it through looks. “What happened? Why are you wearing that? Are you hurt? What happened? Isaac, what  _happened_?”

Isaac,  _what happened?_  Oh.  _Oh_. He was home.

“I…” Isaac swallowed very hard against a tightness in his throat and a burning in his eyes. “I thought…I didn’t want…”

 _Didn’t want to frighten the children,_  he thought, but little Mathilde had scarpered while his mother was manhandling him. He must have already frightened her away, he thought. (Later, when he knew his little sister rather better, he realized she must have seen a moment while Maman was distracted as her chance to run off and hide back in bed so that everyone would forget she’d been naughty).

“Your hands are ice-cold,” Maman said scoldingly, taking them firmly, pulling him bodily over the threshold; if he’d been wearing a hat, the doorframe would have knocked it clean off. “I’m going to get you something to drink, something warm. Just sit. You sit down and you  _stay_  there and we’re going to have a talk.”

All while she was speaking Maman had dragged him over to the sofa and given him a little push; she hardly needed to bother, his knees were feeling very weak indeed. Isaac sat shakily down, looking round the room. It had hardly changed. Aside from a new calendar on the wall, a new knitted throw over the armchair, it was  _exactly_  the same. It hadn’t changed at all, but he’d changed - hadn’t he?

“Did you get the money?” he asked urgently, looking up at her through the eyeholes of his mask. “The money I sent back. Did you get it?”

“Yes, yes, why are you talking about that now?” Maman asked, looking down the bridge of her nose at him in a piercing way that made him confess to a thousand acts of mischief when he was little. “And for pity’s sake, Isaac, take that  _thing_  off! You stay right there.  _Right there_.”

She went to the kitchen, leaving the door separating the two rooms wide open. It was so unlike her - ‘Shut the door, shut the kitchen door!’ she constantly shouted after the children. 'You’ll let the flies in!’

The front door too had not been properly closed. That would bother her, once she came to her senses. Isaac got up and shut it with a soft 'click,’ but no sooner had he done so than Maman was back, having run from the kitchen, kettle in hand. “Where are you going?”

She looked half-wild and Isaac couldn’t understand why; she’d gotten the money, she must have gotten his letters. He couldn’t understand what was she so on-edge about. She’d  _seemed_ …well, come to think of it, she hadn’t seemed pleased to see him. Just grateful. Wildly, desperately grateful.

“I was closing the door,” he gestured to the front entranceway a little uselessly. “I left it open.”

“Sit,” she insisted, not letting her eyes leave him for an instant, not even  _blinking_  until he was back on the sofa like an obedient cushion. Only then did she go back to the kitchen, but she still left the door to the sitting room wide open. 

Isaac - how strange to be Isaac again, after so long! - sat rigidly on the sofa, just feeling slightly uncomfortable. It had always been rather low to the ground, but he’d gotten taller since he’d been away and his knees came up higher than the edge of the cushions. He’d prefer the armchair. But he did as he was told, if only to stop his mother rushing in again, potentially with a boiling hot kettle. 

Return she did, so fast that he was sure the water hadn’t had time to heat. Nevertheless, she pressed a hot mug of tea into his right hand, took hold of his left hand with both of hers, and sat down  _right_  next to him, so close that her dressing gown draped over his left leg like a blanket.

Maman was looking at him, drinking in the sight of him, but she was frowning mightily the whole time. 

“I thought I told you…” she started, imperiously, then caught the tone and stopped herself. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she continued, more imploringly, “Won’t you take that off, Isaac, and let me see you?”

Maman’s hand tightened round his own fingers - her hands had half the length of his, but they were very strong and insistent despite that. She seemed absolutely yearning to tear the mask off herself, but felt she should not. 

“I don’t have a free hand,” Isaac said giving her an awkward smile - which, of course, she could not see. 

With obvious reluctance she let go of his hand, but did not move away from him. She really was uncomfortably close, but pressed as he was between his mother and the arm of the sofa, he had no place to retreat. Isaac raised his now-free hand to the ties of the mask and, taking a bracing breath, pulled it right off. 

Silence. That was how it began. Silence, then screams.

He tensed, but she relaxed immediately. Maman’s eyes filled with tears and she got up, half kneeling on the sofa to kiss his cheeks, taking his face in her hands and drinking her fill of him at last. 

Isaac swallowed hard, wanting to look away, wanting to  _get_  away, (distantly wanting to drink his tea before it went cold), but she wouldn’t let him and he wasn’t about to throw her off. Not his own mother.

“That’s better,” she said, fingers ghosting over the rough spots the mask caused, rubbing away at the thin flesh of his cheeks. “Much better. Gracious, you gave me such a fright, coming in, wearing that. I thought you’d been hurt - I thought something had happened to you, something terrible.”

 _Terrible?_  Isaac reflected thinking back on the last three years. No, it had not been all that terrible. Not most of it. But there were moments…

He dropped the mask onto the couch and tentatively embraced her round the waist with his right arm, loosely, in case she pulled away.

Maman did no such thing. Just held him tighter and kissed the top of his head, pulling back only just enough to run her hand over his shorn hair. “What have you done to your hair? Oh, nevermind, nevermind, it doesn’t matter. You’re staying now, aren’t you? Tell me you’re staying.”

“Didn’t you get my letter?” Isaac asked as well as he could with his face pressed against her shoulder. She didn’t mind. Didn’t mind about his strange eyes or the aborted, empty place where a nose ought to have been pressing right up against her dressing gown. She never had before, but…things changed. Didn’t they?

“That doesn’t matter,” Maman said firmly, only now pushing him away from her so she could look him in the eye. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’ve come back,” he said haltingly. “To stay. If you’ll have me.”

“ _If_  I’ll have you!” she breathed and might have laughed if he didn’t look so horribly sad. “Oh, my dear, dear, boy. I’m of a mind never to let you go.” 


	3. Coming Home II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most people join the circus for the same reason that most people do anything: money.

The crow of the neighbor’s rooster was a remarkable thing. Bram swore it could be heard in Rouen proper, which was how the factories got started every morning. Certainly got him up. He could nap among chisels and picks, clattering hammers and falling stone, even sleep peacefully under the assault of crying children, but he woke immediately upon the caw-cawwing of that bloody rooster.

It had been going strong for at least five years and showed no signs of deterioration, determined to go about its duties, rousing the neighborhood from slumber. 

Bram would love nothing more than to see the damned thing in the bottom of a cooking pot, but yet again he woke disappointed. 

Marie’s side of the bed was empty - as usual, it was a rare morning that she woke after him. It was good luck one of them woke when the children cried; otherwise they never would have survived so long as they did. Before getting out of bed and starting his day properly, he paused and removed a faded, water-stained letter from the table. It was a new ritual, one he’d been enacting every day for a week. Curse the rooster. Sit up. Read Isaac’s letter.

‘Dear Papa and Maman,  
My last salary will be delivered in person. I am on my way home and hope to arrive in a fortnight from the date of this letter. Give the girls my best.  
\- Yr Devoted Son’

Such a simple thing to do before scrubbing face and body at the wash basin, but it felt so necessary. Not given to flights of fancy, it nevertheless was important. The words must be read, imprinted in the mind and more than memorized, felt, like his Torah portion when he was twelve. It was more real, that way. It was his little superstitious aid. His fantasy that if only he performed this act, Isaac would come home.

Fourteen days had come and gone. It was now seventeen days from the postmark, but Bram would not let himself worry. Not yet. Not if he kept reading the letter, every morning. 

Washed and attired, he went down to breakfast, peering into the little girls’ room - Mathilde still abed, she must have been up late, puttering around the house. What a little owl that girl was, and fortunate that she had not begun school yet and would not suffer overmuch for the habit. Marthe’s cot was empty; she was likely the one to rouse Marie. Lisette and Anna-Lise could be trusted to get themselves up, breakfasted, and ready for school all on their own, but still he checked. The older girls’ bed was empty, neatly made, pillows fluffed and ready for their heads at night. Everything neat. Everything and everyone in their place.

Save one. But he’d read the letter. That, and pray, was all he could do.

Bram arrived at the table just in time to receive kisses from the older girls as they went to school - next year was to be Lisette’s last, but she showed no sign of itching to be rid of it and Anna-Lise would not like to be anywhere else in the world, save, perhaps the library. They were good girls. Bright girls. All of his children were bright. 

“'Morning darling,” he pressed a kiss to Marie’s temple as she poured his coffee and laid out his tartine. Marthe was sitting in her little chair, face smeared with butter and jam, but he braved getting the sticky mess in his beard and kissed both her cheeks as well, “And a very good-morning to you too, petite!" 

"Good morning,” Marie replied, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Bram looked up, a little apprehensive; that was her usual signal that something had happened, either that she received word they were expected at a funeral, or that she was expecting another baby. He looked at her, bracing himself for news either good or bad, but she only turned back to the stove, shaking her head. “Wipe your face, your beard’s filthy.”

Ah, so it was to be a delayed message; not a funeral then. That was quite alright, draw out the suspense, let him get turned in knots and then send him off into the world to wrestle with enormously heavy beams, mallets, and nails. Every day was an adventure with that woman, to be sure. Marie sat down to her breakfast, eating little, speaking less and leaving her husband free to make small-talk with Marthe, who babbled merrily and spit out half her bread all over herself. 

“Oh?” he asked, like the baby had said something enlightening. Really, she’d just dribbled milk down her gown. “Ah, I hadn’t heard. How delightful!”

“Isaac’s in your mother’s room.”

Marthe stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at them; Bram dropped his cup so suddenly that coffee splashed over his hand and scalded him. “Damn!”

“Shh!” Marie hushed him hurriedly, glancing at the closed door off the kitchen that had once been home to his mother, before she passed. “Don’t wake him. He got in quite late - ”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bram asked, pushing himself away from the table. “I don’t care how late it was! I would have liked to see him!”

Marie did not reply immediately, she merely stared at him, arms folded. Then she turned away, “You’ll be late for work - ”

“I’ll risk it for today,” he said, scraping his chair legs away from the table, determined to stick his head in the bedroom door before he was on his way. It had been three years after all! Three very long, very guilty years.

The three of them had discussed Isaac’s going away, one long-ago night that he replayed over and over in his mind during quiet hours when he was not taken up with family or work. Over and over he wracked his brain, trying to come up with some solution, imagining he could turn back time and solve their problems so that his son did not offer to join up with a traveling fair, but every time the answer was the same: there was no solution that would have garnered results that quickly and the consequences to every other decision possible were worse than the one they’d settled on. 

It was to do with money, as so many things were for those struggling to maintain a tenuous grasp on the middle class. Ever since he’d quit the stoneworks it had been a challenge to find work that paid enough to supply for the family’s expenses. And with the addition of more children, things only got tighter. Already he felt he’d done wrong by his children; Isaac was so bright, he ought to have gone to university, but it was out of the question. When his formal schooling ended, the only option had been a three year apprenticeship to the builder’s guild - a three year unpaid apprenticeship and it was no use going and arguing his case; Bram’s own employment might have been in jeopardy if he protested too loudly. Then the fair came to town.

Bram had been minding Anna-Lise, Isaac had found some friends and evidently they wandered into the carnival’s side-show. It was there, away from his parents that the barker approached Isaac and asked if he’d ever considered “performing.” It was lucky indeed for the barker that Bram had not been there to overhear him - whatever decision they came to at the dining room table, after laying out all options, it would not have mattered, in the end. If Bram heard someone suggest that his son ought to be paid money to show his face to people, they themselves would have become a worthy attraction, once he was through with them. Isaac had an unfortunate birth defect, that was all - he was not some kind of animal.

But it was Isaac who mentioned the offer to his father - it wasn’t only about his face, he reasoned. After he picked up a guide to ventriloquism when he was twelve, he’d become a decent practitioner of the art. And he had a few little penny pamphlets about magic, the tips in which he employed to great effect. That, in addition to his skill on the violin ought to earn him his due pay; the face was practically an afterthought. 

There was much debate - Marie seemed on the cusp of putting her foot down about it several times. But it was easy money. And he could travel, which was appealing to a boy with such an expansive mind who’d never been to a city larger than Rouen in his life. And - this was the point that Bram tried to drum into him from the first - if his fortunes took a turn for the worst, he must come home. No matter where he was, no matter the expense, they would send for him if they had to. But they agreed that he should at least see if he could make a go of it.

Isaac was a faithful correspondent, Anna-Lise saved all the envelopes with their postmarks he sent back, sometimes with little gifts tucked inside, or renderings he’d drawn of places he’d seen. He was a thoughtful boy and they tried to anticipate his movements, sending letter after letter in the hopes that they would reach him. They must have sent more than a hundred, but from Isaac’s own correspondence, Bram was sure he’d only received fewer than a dozen. 

“I think you ought to leave him be, you can see him tonight,” Marie said, snapping him back to the present. Isaac was not wandering Europe, he was here in this house, ten feet away. It was unreal. “He needs his rest, he was…not himself when I saw him, probably nervous exhaustion, I shouldn’t wonder and you know his health - ”

“Has been excellent these last years,” Bram interrupted. Robust, even. If Isaac the young man was as sickly as Isaac the child, there was no question that he would never have been permitted to go abroad. He was a spirited boy, but fragile when he was small. He caught every tickle in the throat and every bout of flu that made its way through town. Nervous exhaustion his left foot, Marie was just being overcautious.

“I’ll just look,” he said with a note of finality in his voice. “Very quietly.”

Marie threw up her hands and retrieved Marthe, presumably to give her a thorough cleaning. Meanwhile, Bram placed his hand on the door latch and pushed. 

The room was very dim, the shutters drawn since it was no longer occupied. But Marie aired it every week, on the unspoken assumption that once Isaac did come home he could hardly be expected to bed down with his little sisters. 

Not when he was nearly nineteen. 

Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that Isaac was, in fact, asleep, curled up in an uncomfortable fashion on a bed that was far too short. The blankets were wrapped tightly around him, pulled taught against his bony shoulders, clutched in his extraordinarily long, skinny fingers. But he was right there. Close enough to touch. 

Marie was right - she was always right. He couldn’t just peer in, reassure himself that his son was home and hale and go off to work like any other day. How foolish of him to believe that he could. Bram made a bargain with himself - he’d just look closely to see how he’d changed in the past three years, then, once he was reacquainted with his face, he would take himself off to work. Very quietly.

Creeping closer to the bed, he tilted his head to the side to get a better look at him; one of Isaac’s arms was half-covering his face, but there was no doubt that was his son. With a pang, he recalled the night he was born, the panic, the absolute fear when the midwife said, sadly, that such children did not generally live long. 

But here he was, a man now. The odd things about his face were only pronounced with time, the craggy boniness of his forehead more prominent, his face longer and, if possible, leaner than when he’d left. There was a look of strain about him, even asleep; a line between his eyebrows that had not been there before, tension around the eyes, deep in their sockets. Bram couldn’t help himself, he reached out, just a little, just to feel him, to rest a hand against his hair, feather-light, he’d always been difficult to rouse in the morning, he’d never notice -

A split second later Bram was blinking stars out of his eyes. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d suffered a blow, but it was the first time he’d never seen it coming; he took an instant to get his bearings. Somehow he’d been tossed against the wall and must have hit his head on the plaster. Funny. He’d never even noticed the horse that kicked him - oh. And Isaac was awake. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, are you - oh, I’m so sorry,” he was babbling, hovering, crouched over him with his hands raised, trembling, not touching his father. Bram blinked and the world swam back into focus. Gingerly he felt the back of his head. He’d have quite a bump, but nothing felt broken and there was no blood when he took his fingers away. 

“Good morning,” Bram said pleasantly. “Help your father up, will you?”

Isaac hesitated just a moment before he got his long, spindly fingers under Bram’s elbow and hauled him up - the boy had always been uncannily strong, but never uncannily twitchy. He’d have to remember that the next time he tried to get him up in the morning. Poking him with a long tree branch would have to be the solution. It took Bram another blink before he realized that though both of them were standing, Isaac was still bent over, crouching over him and looking him over with anxious eyes. 

That was even more dismaying than the blow! For when Isaac left they were more or less of a height, but Bram could not deny that his son (his little boy, his little helper) was no longer his 'little' anything. For he was definitely taller than him. _Much_ taller than him. 

“Straighten up,” Bram squinted, eyeing him up and down. “Let me look at you.”

Reluctantly, Isaac stood up straight and - damn it - positively dwarfed his father. Even barefoot on the floor. That would take some getting used to. The clothes he wore were ill-fitting, both too loose and too short. He’d never been a particularly good eater and all the nutrition he took in went toward length of bone rather than anything else. And he’d cut off all his hair which was…alarming. It looked like someone had gone at his head with a razor, for it was coming back in, but uneven, in jagged strips, sticking out every which way. 

“Are you alright?” Isaac asked, in that deep resonant voice that still occasionally fluctuated in timbre before he went away. Now it seemed permanently settled in the lower register “I’m so - ”

“Sorry, you said,” Bram nodded vague, then winced. Alright, no nodding for the present. And perhaps he was not going to make it to the build site on time after all. “It’s no matter, your mother said you were…tired. No doubt I caught you in the middle of a bad dream - must have been ghastly.”

Isaac didn’t say anything and the silence was more disturbing than the shorn hair or the great height. He looked…nervous. And exhausted. Just as Marie said. Bram reached out to put a hand on his shoulder - and he flinched.

 _Oh my boy,_ he thought, alarmed. _What did I send you to?_

“Come along,” he said, resting his hand firmly on his son’s arm. “Let’s find me something cold to press on my head and let’s get you some breakfast. Unless you’d rather sleep…” 

“No,” he said immediately, glancing back at the bed as if it had done him a wrong.

“Can’t be comfortable,” Bram said conversationally as he led Isaac to the kitchen, “sleeping all curled up like that, I’ll see about getting some longer pieces of timber for the frame - ”

But Isaac froze right at the door. Bram was about to ask what the matter was when he heard the sound of running footsteps, Marthe shrieking and laughing as Marie chased her about shouting, “Come back here and let me get that jam out of your hair!”

Isaac retreated back to the bed, rummaging around among the blankets and pillows, looking for something with a singular intensity. Bram watched him warily, but as he continued turning the bedding upside down, dumping out his little satchel of belongings and sifting through them as if for gold he asked, “Anything I can help you with?”

“I must have left it in the sitting room,” Isaac muttered to himself. He looked up at his father from where he knelt beside the bed, his expression shifting between remorse and…shame. About the little tussle when he woke? That was nothing, if not for the throbbing at the base of his skill, Bram would have forgotten all about it. Marie told him not to wake the boy, but had he listened? No, and he’d no one to blame for startling him but himself. “I think…I’ll just wait here. For now. Until the baby - Marthe? - is…otherwise occupied. I don’t need anything, I never eat breakfast anymore.”

What nonsense was this? Isaac only ever refused butter and jam when he was violently ill. 

“What’s Marthe got to do with anything?” Bram asked, confused. “When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

Isaac’s silence spoke volumes. 

“Come along,” Bram urged, not crossing the room to tug him forward this time. It was like talking to a spooked pony and…nothing like talking to Isaac. “Come along. Mathilde will be down to breakfast any time and she’s not been fed. You won’t be putting your mother out - why, you haven’t even _met_ Marthe yet! She’s dear with strangers, she won’t make a fuss. What were you looking for anyway?”

Silence again. Then, very quietly, “I have a mask I wear. Now. It’s…better, especially around children.”

Bram went absolutely numb - even his head stopped hurting. A mask. A mask?

“Oh, no,” he said softly, approaching Isaac carefully. Crouching down beside him, he got close, but did not touch. “That won’t do. Not at all. Come along and meet your sisters.”

Bram stood and held out a hand to help him up, though he knew full well Isaac did not require it. The boy froze, staring at his hand as if it was a foreign thing.

“Come along, petit,” Bram insisted, the endearment fitting, even after all this time. “We’ve all missed you so much.”

Isaac took a breath, like he was steadying himself to do some impossible thing, and finally let his father haul him up. Bram opened the door to the kitchen and gave him an encouraging nudge over the threshold. The lines of worry on his face were etched more deeply now that he was awake and his father realized that even though Isaac was finally home, he still had a journey ahead of him.


	4. Coming Home III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No need to get involved in the intrigues of the Persian court when Mom needs your help babysitting.

Myriam was absolutely sure something was very  _off_  with Isaac, despite Bram’s protests that everything was  _fine_ , really. Bram seemed to think that Isaac just needed time to get used to being at home again, to reacquaint himself with the rhythms of the house. Her husband was ever an optimist, a glass-half-full type and she loved him for it, but when he got it wrong, he  _really_ got it wrong. Isaac was not acting at all himself and it troubled her.

“It’s been three years, Marie,” Bram reminded her when they were alone in their room at night, save for Marthe in her cot. “People can change in three years - children especially.”  
  


That wasn’t it, but Myriam was too wise to start an argument before bed. There were things she knew about Isaac, really  _knew_ , and they were not things that changed, even in three years, even in boys who were turning into young men. All was  _not_  well, this was not simply a matter of reintegrating him into the household. And even that task was proving difficult, for Isaac scarcely seemed to be about at all.  
  


Food went missing - nothing important, an apple here, a few slices of bread there. She couldn’t find evidence that he was squirreling it away in his room, so she assume Isaac must be eating it - out of sight, then when she asked if he wouldn’t join her for dinner, her said he wasn’t hungry and meant it.   
  


He was avoiding them all, it seemed and she could not understand why. Bram practically forced him to the breakfast table his first morning back and he looked like he wanted to bolt all the while, hardly touching his food and drinking his coffee so quickly that she was surprised he didn’t burn his throat. He barely  _spoke_ , which was even more unusual.  _Her_  Isaac never stopped talking or singing or moving, but when she did see him, he sat still as a statue, only his eyes darted about like he was looking to escape. And she hadn’t heard him sing once since he’d been home. Not even to hum.   
  


And since he was conducting himself like a shade, the girls started treating him like a shade - avoiding going near his room, giving him a wide berth when they heard him or saw him on those rare occasions he let himself be noticed around the house. Myriam had seen Lisette brave the door, kneeling on the floor and peering in through the keyhole (it was no use looking in through the windows, every time Myriam opened the shutters to air the room, he shut them once he was back inside). 

As for what he was doing and where he was taking himself, Myriam hadn’t a clue. It certainly wasn’t to pay social calls - she asked him one day if he wouldn’t like to come with her to attend on Madame Benoit, whose daughter Estelle had been a great friend of his. Isaac went stiff and shook his head, murmuring quietly that if it was all the same to her, he’d rather not.

  
Quiet. Isaac had  _never_  been quiet. It was only his very loud wailing after he was first born that convinced the midwife he might live after all.   
  


They could not continue like this - in the first place because it wasn’t a help to Isaac to let him float around the house like a gloomy little raincloud and in the second because she was greatly annoyed by the whole situation. 

The room, when she entered, as she did every few days, was empty. The one change in his personal habits that she could happily live with was a newfound sense of tidiness. The bed was always neatly made, as if he hadn’t slept in it. 

The drawers in the dresser shut, nothing hanging out, no stockings all over the floor, or under the bed gathering dust. No little ‘collections’ sprouting up on the windowsills, no forgotten frogs in jacket pockets.   
  


In defiance of his unspoken preferences, Myriam opened the shutters and raised the window to let some fresh air in, lest the room smell musty. Sunlight streamed in over the bed, falling on the worn burlap satchel he’d brought with him that she assumed contained his worldly possessions, including his violin…  
  


No. The violin was the only sign he lived there at all and it was laid carefully atop the dresser, though as far as she knew he’d not played it since he’d come home. Why did the satchel look full?  
  


 _He’s a man now_ , the sensible part of he brain reminded her.  _You can’t just go poking through his things like he’s still an absent-minded five-year-old, filling his pockets with pretty stones and dirt_.

  
Naturally, she ignored the rational part of her brain and upended the satchel all over the bed. Clothes poured out - two shirts, equally worn with yellow stains round the collar and under the arms that would never come out. An extra pair of trousers that were more rags than anything and a heavily patched jacket. The only thing missing was that damnable mask - she ought to have 'lost’ it when he forgot the thing in the sitting room that night, but by the time she remembered to look for it, it was gone, presumably back in Isaac’s possession.   
  


She went to the dresser and pulled out the drawers - empty, save for the bottom drawer which still contained her mother-in-law’s shawl, one of the last pieces she’d knit with her own hands, that neither she nor Bram could bear to part with. 

But Isaac hadn’t been using them at all. He’d been living out of his satchel - oh. 

No. No, absolutely not, she’d made him  _promise_  her, he was there to stay. And she had believed him, even if he did not believe himself.   
  


Well. He could not run away if he had no clothes. Myriam was nothing if not a practical woman.

She gathered up the detritus strewn over the bed and carried it back into the kitchen. The trousers were beyond salvaging and the shirts were little better. The former she cut into strips and gave to Mathilde to make playthings for the dogs. The latter she cut up herself into rags. The satchel she hung from a peg in the kitchen and decided it would do very well to transport potatoes and onions from the kitchen garden. Then she did something a little nefarious - she bolted the outside entrance to his bedroom so that when he got back from wherever he’d gone to, he would  _have_  to enter the room via the kitchen.   
  


Mathilde was sent into the garden with a little watering can to tend to the peas, Marthe was amusing herself on the floor with a spare piece of dough from the loaf that was nearly ready to come out of the kitchen. And Myriam was waiting, dressed to go out beneath her apron, her hat resting on the kitchen table until Isaac returned.  
  


And return he did, just as Mathilde was coming back in, wet down her front from the watering can. Myriam untied Mathilde’s little apron and looked up as Isaac hovered in the doorway, neither coming in nor going out. She might have stuck Marthe on the floor in front of his bedroom door on purpose.   
  


“Oh, good,” she said, casually, as if it was merely a happy coincidence that he was come in to the kitchen, rather than a carefully orchestrated plan. “Go wash up, I need you to mind Mathilde for me, we’re going on an outing.”  
  


“An outing?” Isaac questioned, as if the word was foreign to him.  
  


“To the haberdashers,” Myriam clarified. “You need new clothes, darling, the ones you had were not suitable.”  
  


“Had?” he asked, brow furrowing. The damnable mask was folded up in one of his long hands, but she saw it all the same.   
  


Myriam straightened up, hung up Mathilde’s apron and pinned her hat on, all with one graceful swoop of her arm. “As I said, quite unsuitable to wear, but they’ll do well for blacking boots and polishing the silver. Go on - I’ve refilled the pitcher in your room and left you a fresh cake of soap.”  
  


“I’d really rather - ”  
  


“Oh, my dearest love, I don’t care what you’d rather,” Myriam said firmly, scooping up Marthe from the floor and balancing her on her hip as she retrieved the bread. “Now, go on. Or do I have to count to ten? One. Two - ”  
  


Some things hadn’t changed; even after all this time, Isaac still did not want his mother to get past 'three.’  
  


He emerged after a few minutes, hands and face clean - she could see that his face was clean since he’d left the mask behind. Good boy; if her plan went off without a hitch, she could just dart in and lose it when they got back.   
  


“Please hold Mathilde’s hand, will you, darling?” she called over her shoulder as she strode for the front door. “I don’t want her to dart about when we get into town.”  
  


Mathilde obediently went to Isaac’s side and held her little hand out expectantly. He hesitated a scant second, then awkwardly stuck his left hand out for her to take. She wrapped her hand around the tips of three of his fingers, then  _she_  dragged him along to the front door; Mathilde loved an outing.   
  


“You’re my brother?” she asked, tilting her chin all the way back to look up at him.

  
“Yes,” Isaac said shortly.   
  


Mathilde nodded, walking along in silence. Then, “How old are you?”  
  


“Nineteen,” Isaac informed her.   
  


“So you  _are_  older than me,” Mathilde said, a suspicion confirmed. “I thought as much. Because you’re bigger than me. But Rose - she is older than me also, but not so much as you, she is seven - she has a new brother too, only hers is a baby. I thought new brothers were babies, but not always, I guess.”  
  


“Isaac is not a  _new_  brother,” Myriam reminded her. “He’s always been your brother, you were just very small when he went away, so you don’t remember. We talked about him all the time!”  
  


Mathilde nodded absently, craning her head behind to look at a worm that was wiggling out of the earth. “Yes, you told me about my brother Isaac, but you said he had a funny-looking face - which this brother Isaac does - and talked a lot and played music and…this brother Isaac does not. I just wanted to make certain this was the old brother Isaac and not a new brother Isaac.”  
  


“Sorry to disappoint you,” he muttered, but Mathilde heard him anyway.   
  


“I’m not disappointed,” she clarified. “I just wanted to make sure you were the correct you.”  
  


She then launched into a monologue about Rose’s new baby brother, Rose in general, her friends, her favorite things to do, her favorite foods. Isaac did not provide much in the way of conversation, save for a few 'hmms’ and 'I sees’, but Mathilde did not need much encouragement to chatter and it sufficed.   
  


M. Faucheux and his wife ran the haberdashery and the bell tinkled cheerfully upon their arrival - Isaac had to duck on his way into the shop to avoid being hit in the head. He couldn’t do anything by halves, could he? Had to be extraordinary in every way, that one: extraordinary face, extraordinary height, extraordinary voice, extraordinary thinness, extraordinary mind.   
  


“Good morning, Marie!” Geneviève Faucheux said when she saw her.   
  
Her eyes went wide as she behind the whole group and Mathilde exclaimed, “Ouch! That’s too tight, Isaac,” and she wrenched her hand away and went to look at the little fashion dolls in their miniature finery. Isaac’s hands clenched into fists and he looked at his mother as if he expected her to…what? Shout at him? For what, squeezing Mathilde’s hand? It was hardly a slight worth noticing and anyway, Mathilde had taken care of the matter herself. 

“Oh my goodness,” Geneviève breathed. “Isaac! You’ve gotten so  _tall_ , what a surprise! I didn’t know you’d come home! Have you only just got to town?”  
  


“He has,” Myriam explained for him. “Only just arrived and I said we must come straight to you and get the boy some proper-fitting things.”  
  


“I should say so,” Geneviève replied, looking him up and down. “My husband’s just gone to the post office, but he should be back very soon, I can have him take your measurements if you don’t mind waiting - ”  
  


“No,” Isaac said, quietly but forcefully. He swallowed hard and raised his eyes to his mother’s face. “I’d… _really_  rather not. Please.”  
  


It was his new favorite expression and quickly was becoming Myriam’s most loathed. She drew herself up and was about to tell him once again that what he preferred was immaterial when she really  _looked_  in his eyes. This was more than obstinacy…why he actually looked  _scared_.  
  


_Isaac, what happened?_   
  


She’s asked him straight away that first night when she saw him standing on the doorstep, like a vagabond, not sure if he was wanted or would be welcomed. He hadn’t answered her then and he was not going to answer her now.   
  


“I’ll just order the cloth,” Myriam said with studied carelessness, switching 

Marthe onto her other hip since she was getting heavy. “Whatever you think is best, I want to get at least two pairs of trousers and three shirts out of it, with one good jacket. Wool for the trousers and jacket, cotton for the shirts - I’m sure he and his father wear the same size cravat.”  
  


“And that’s all they’ll wear of the same size,” Geneviève chuckled; good woman, good business sense: don’t ask too many questions of the customers. “I’ll be sure to cut for length and not for width - but you always were a skinny little fellow, Isaac, bless you! I suppose some things never change. Will you want closures and buttons?”  
  


“Please,” Myriam nodded. “And a new pair of braces - the longest you have in stock.”  
  


She had enough scraps to make a few waistcoats from their leavings, but everything else would have to be bought. It would set them back a bit, but the cost was worth it to have him dressed as a young man ought to be and not like the world’s largest street urchin. Mathilde was behaving herself without much supervision, but Marthe was getting fussy and Myriam had to dole out the payment. Turning to Isaac she held Marthe out to him and bade him walk around with her outside, please, but under  _no_  circumstances was he to put her down.   
  


“She might…cry,” Isaac said as he took Marthe, holding her away from himself like a parcel of rotting fish.  
  


“She will if you hold her like that,” Myriam agreed. “Go on, you know how to hold a baby, Isaac.”  
  


Hesitantly - always hesitating now, always unsure - he settled her against his chest. Marthe did fuss, but no more than she had when Myriam had hold of her; she wanted to be out and about and sunshine would do the both of them good. Myriam nodded at the shop door and Isaac left - taking care to avoid the bell.   
  


“May I go with them, Maman?” Mathilde asked. “I’m bored.”  
  


Isaac had not strayed too far - Marthe caught slight of herself in the shop window and was amusing herself with her own reflection; Isaac was staring stoically past the glass at the cloth in racks on the wall. Myriam said Mathilde could join them so long as she was good and stayed right beside her brother. Mathilde was off like a shot, slamming the door behind her.   
  


“Did you know he was coming home, Marie? You never said anything,” Geneviève asked as she tallied the total the goods would cost.  
  


“I only just found out myself two weeks ago,” she replied. “But we’re all very pleased.”  
  


“What was he doing - fiddling with some…orchestra or other?” Geneviève asked. “I was sure it was something to do with performance - it doesn’t look like they paid well at all, with the state of him! No wonder he came back - and why did he cut off all his hair?”  
  


“I’m not sure,” Myriam shrugged breezily. “You know what inns are like, I might cut off all my hair too if I was bedding down all over. And…he’s a good, dutiful boy, he sent much of his earnings back to us -  _too_  much, I think, but then, he’s nothing if not generous.”  
  


Geneviève smiled and handed over her parcels, “Of course, he’s a good boy. You and Bram must be so happy to have him back!”  
  


Despite it all, Myriam was able to smile back. “We are - thrilled, of course. Very happy - of course, I’ll be happiest once he’s got some decent clothes to his name. Thank you very much, have a good evening.”  
  


Geneviève bade her farewell and Myriam handed off the little bag of buttons and hooks to Mathilde, who she took by one hand while tucking her parcels of wool and cotton under the other; Isaac could continue to hold Marthe, she’d do him a world of good.   
  


“We’re going to stop by the school and fetch Lisette and Anna-Lise,” Myriam announced, fully aware that the girls were perfectly capable of seeing themselves home. “And to the butcher’s for some bones, I want to make a broth tonight. And…if we aren’t too tired…perhaps a stop at the confectioner’s - ”

“For sugared almonds!” Mathilde supplied, eyes wide with delight.  
  


“We can buy some almonds,” Myriam agreed. “And caramels - Isaac you still like caramels, don’t you?”  
  


“I…” he shrugged. “I haven’t had any in a while. I’m sure I do, but you don’t have to - ”  
  


“Right, that’s settled then,” Myriam nodded and turned on her heel to stride toward the school, leaving the children to hurry along after her.   
  


For she had a plan. It was very similar to the plan she concocted the day after Isaac was born as she watched the poor, dear, little fellow asleep in his cradle. If he lived - an  _if_  which loomed large in their hearts for many months - he might have a difficult go of it. His was not a face likely to improve as he aged. Port wine stains vanished, sometimes. Awkward children developed into attractive adults. But this was beyond any of that.   
  


At only eighteen years old, she ought to have been intimidated, if not outright horrified by the baby - other women surely would have been, for she’d been on the receiving end of many, 'Oh, you poor dear, how _eve_ r do you manage?’ queries over the years. But Myriam was practical. And certainly not frightened, not of Isaac, only of her own ability to properly care for Isaac. He was so  _small_  after all. And seemed so frail. But he had that piercing cry! He’d not be left behind and forgotten, not him. And when she held him, his stick-like fingers curled round her thumb and held on so tightly…she had to do right by him. She determined she would, resolved that she would, her husband and herself. They would do all that was in their power to ease his way.  
  


And so she’d developed a plan: take him  _everywhere_. Put him in his pram and push it into stores, cap tied round his head, blanket tucked under his chin. Hold him while she placed an order at the grocer’s. Take him to the building sites where Bram was working on those days when he forgot his lunch. Introduce him to the neighbors, new and old so that he wasn’t some whispered-about unfortunate living on one of the plaster houses on the hill. Myriam was  _aggressive_  in how normally she treated him (and honestly, she might have put him out into the world too much, considering how frequently he fell ill when he was small), but it was a strategy that served her well. By the time he left home, Isaac was everything she could wish him to be: polite, thoughtful, friendly, helpful, and useful. Everything else, the music, the knowledge, the talent, that bottomless well of talent that made him an expert of every thing he turned his hand to, that was all extra. It was nice to have amusement in the evenings, but it didn’t touch the truly  _important_  things that Isaac was.  
  


She’d exposed the world to Isaac before and it had gone splendidly. She just had to expose Isaac to the world. He was a quick study, that boy; she did not imagine it would be harder the second time round.   
  
Anyway, if she kept him occupied with the girls and candies, she might be able to find that mask when she got home and she was  _determined_  to lose that mask. 


	5. Easy to Get Used To II

The house was - slowly! - becoming livable, largely thanks to the assistance of the Astrucs, Celia's favorite neighbors. Monsieur Astruc had come by on _Sunday_ , of all days, to arrange the furniture to her liking. To be perfectly honest, when little Isaac informed her that 'Papa is coming to help!' she couldn't help feeling a sense of dread. She'd imagined, based on the child's face (which clearly was _not_  the product of the mother's family) that M. Astruc must look like more of a ghoul than his son.

 

She pictured it quite vividly, in fact. A tall, gaunt figure with empty eye sockets and a lipless sneer - like the Grim Reaper himself come to call! But practicality won out over fancy in the end - even if he did come covered in grave dirt and wearing his burial shroud, a cadaver who was willing to move furniture was worth more than ten living men who were not. But as it turned out she needn't have worried. M. Astruc was a stocky man, only average height who reminded her of nothing so much as a boulder with round, handsome cheeks and a sandy beard. It was only when he doffed his hat to her, in much the same manner as his son and bid her good-day that she saw his eyes - one golden yellow and one blue-white. The perfect image of Isaac's. Then he clapped his meaty hands and said that - per order of his wife - he was her packhorse to do with as she wished. 

 

It actually caused her some grief to watch M. Astruc putter around the house with Isaac bouncing about like an overeager rabbit. It was clear the two were delighted with each other, Isaac thinking the world of his Papa (no man was stronger or better!) and M. Astruc thinking the same of the child (no son was brighter or funnier!) It reminded her, very forcefully, that little Henri would have no father to take such joy from him. Amazing though it was to admit, she had an easier time bearing Isaac's presence about the house. 

 

Poor little wretch! She felt practically sinful, but she simply could not become used to that horrible little face. It was not without guilt that she most often appointed him tasks that took him out of the house and away from her, but it still troubled her greatly to look at him. 

 

If it were merely that he was terribly thin, she would have only been slightly discomfited. Or, if he had the build more typical of a boy his age, but was still cursed with that awful face, she might have pitied him only and thought it a tremendous penance to pat him upon the head and smile at him.

 

But taken all together, the boniness of the shoulders, the length of the skinny fingers, the chill of his skin (cold, always cold, even when he'd come in from the sunshine!), and that dreadful _face_  with his skeleton's grin and devil's eyes, it was too much. Too much to look at without suppressing a shudder. A shudder which one might regard as the natural response to looking at someone as _un_ natural as little Isaac Astruc, but Celia felt ashamed of herself every time. And not a little backward - the rest of the village seemed to regard him as different-looking, but unremarkable. They had the benefit of nine years' experience with him and she only a few weeks, but even so. To encounter feelings of both horror and guilt every time the child was in her house was too much to bear.

 

Once the furniture was in place, the house settled into, the window casements caulked up and the weeds pulled from the garden, she thought she could wash her hands of him. Send him back to Maman with the excuse that she had no more work for him to keep the boy out of mischief. The trouble of it was, _Henri_  was smitten with him. 

 

Although Mme. Astruc had erred in her conclusion that Celia would quickly become acclimated to her son's face, she was spot-on when she declared he had a gift with children. When his work was done, he gravitated toward Henri's cradle, pulling grotesque faces at the baby and making him smile. Digging his stick-like fingers into his sides and the soles of his feet, making him laugh. When Isaac announced himself, Henri would turn toward him immediately, little fingers opening and closing, mouth widening in a toothless smile. Isaac walked him around the house when he fussed and sang to him when he cried.

 

The _singing_ , now, that was something Celia would miss when she inevitably sent him away. Despite his looks, the boy's voice was flawlessly beautiful, as though God, in pity, had given him one amazing gift to supply for the rest of his deficiencies. When he sang, she could look at him. But only then.

 

It wasn't until Celia hadn't heard Isaac's customary knock on the door and cheerful call of, "Good morning, Madame! Have you a task for me?" for three days together that, wonder of wonders, she started to _miss_ him. Missed his singing, and his helpfulness, and even his endless chatter about the things he loved (singing, playing the violin, his Maman, his Papa, his sisters, his friends, wading in the river, going to school, chocolate, caramel, and Sabbath dinners) and the things he hated (this list was shorter and any conversation about his dislikes tended to light on one topic - raisins). 

 

And, more practically, she missed Isaac because he would pop out to the market when she asked to purchase little incidentals for her whilst Henri was napping. It was in the market that she overheard a bit of chatter - she was still newly arrived to town and viewed with some of the suspicion typically displayed by close-knit communities to new neighbors, so no one was speaking to _her_. Her ears only perked up when she heard the phrase 'poor little Isaac.'

 

"It's not measles again, is it?" A short, wiry, dark-haired woman asked with alarm. 

 

The other woman she'd been talking to, much taller and broader and blonder, shook her head at once, "No, thank Heaven for that. I always thought that once you'd got over measles, you couldn't catch it again?"

 

The smaller woman shrugged, "So have I, but if anyone's going to get measles twice..."

 

"Just so, leave it to Isaac," her companion sighed. "His poor mother, him _and_ the little girls - and do you know, I heard Marie lost a baby a few months back?"

 

The smaller woman hummed thoughtfully and hushed her voice, so that Celia had to feign extreme interest in aubergines and strain to hear her.

 

"It's a pity to be sure, but...well. The other two she has are healthy and _whole_. Can you imagine if she had one like _him_?"

 

The larger woman hastily crossed herself, a slightly guilty expression on her face as she did so. "Poor woman - poor child. Well, I'll light a candle for him on Sunday - it can't hurt, do you suppose?"

 

"No, I don't think so; pray for the afflicted, eh? It's all we can do." The smaller woman, hefted her basket up a bit and shook its contents. "I'm sending a bit of supper over - Marie is a _marvel_ , but there's only so many hours in a day, you know..."

 

"I wanted to do the same," her companion said, the two drifting away from Celia, so that she could not follow the conversation any longer, "only I don't know what they're permitted to eat..."

 

Celia stood still by the aubergines for a minute, feeling alarm and pity. She thought she ought to drop by the house, see if there was anything she could do - but for the mention of  _measles_. She had her own son to think of. But the Astrucs had been so  _kind._ Perhaps she could just stop by on her way back from the market. To pay a call. She needn't go _in_ , after all.

 

Without buying any of the necessaries she'd gone to the market for, she made her way back up the hill toward the Astruc's home. It was a handsome house with a slate roof and a low stone wall separating the property from the road. M. Astruc had done the handiwork as a gift to his wife, so Mme. Astruc said; he'd finished it just as they welcomed Isaac into the world.

 

'Welcomed' him, she said. That was the word she used. As though she was grateful to have such a child. 

 

As Celia approached the house, she wondered if Mme. Astruc ever resented the fact that she had two perfectly formed little girls, yet her only son was...well. Imperfect. She'd never given any indication of such, but _surely_...it was only human nature...wasn't it?

 

She studied the curious little box nailed to the wall outside the door. Celia had marked it before, but was never brave enough to ask just what it was; the Astrucs were the only Jews she'd ever met and she didn't want to seem horribly ignorant, or impertinent in asking too many questions. Anyway, it mightn't have anything to do with their faith at all; it might, perhaps, be an obvious place to store a spare key.

 

They took a long time in answering - Celia was half certain they weren't home, only that she heard the sounds of the younger two girls playing. She shifted Henri to her other hip, supposing she might give up her call as well-intentioned, but ill-timed, when Mme. Astruc opened the door. 

 

She looked dreadful. An uncharitable thought, but for a woman who'd struck Celia with her grace and poise when first they met, the change was startling. She was pale, her eyes ringed with shadows and her hair was curling out of its arrangement. Her dress was faded brown and the apron she wore grubby. Her face looked so pinched and worried, that Celia thought she could see a bit of a family resemblance to Isaac at last.

 

"Madame Vincent," she said, a little breathlessly. "I'm so sorry, I can't receive you properly, the house is...not fit for company, and I'm afraid our Isaac is unwell."

 

"Oh, I know," Celia said, cursing herself silently for not taking the lead and explaining that she didn't meant to stay only she was concerned about Isaac. "I mean - I heard he wasn't well, I just was wondering if...erm. If..."

 

_If it's measles and I ought to be worried about my son._

 

"A summer cold," Mme. Astruc informed her grimly. "But, with Isaac..."

 

She looked over her shoulder and Celia shifted slightly. Isaac was lying on the sofa, she could scarcely see him, surrounded as he was by quilts and blankets, despite the heat of the day. His two sisters were engaged in playing on the floor beside him, running a faded wooden train around the carpet, occasionally holding a piece of the set up for him to see. 

 

He looked ghastly. Moreso than usual. His face was whiter than the pillows on which he rested, and Celia could hear his wheezing breaths from across the room. The breath caught. He sounded like he was choking.

 

At once Mme. Astruc left the door and was at her son's side. She had him sitting up and Celia winced as she pounded on his back until he brought the phlegm up. On the floor, the younger of the two girls continued playing, but the elder, dark-haired girl looked fearfully at her mother and brother. 

 

Once Isaac was breathing a little easier, he smiled at his sister.

 

"I'm alright," he coughed as his mother lay him back down and tucked him firmly in. "Promise. Thank you, Maman."

 

Mme. Astruc didn't say a word, she bent and kissed his brow, caressing his cheek. Celia felt tears spring to her eyes, but she looked up and blinked them away; poor woman. Poor _boy_.

 

"I'm sorry," Celia said, taking a step back out onto the front step. "I can see you've...is there anything I can do? I could...take the younger girls, if you'd like. I was coming to ask - or...laundry? Anything I can do at all?"

 

She asked as though she'd meant to ask. As though she'd come out of generosity of spirit and not curiosity and a little fear. If Mme. Astruc saw through her, she wouldn't be surprised.

 

But Mme. Astruc seemed too tired for suspicion. She started to shake her head, then glanced back at her children.

 

"Well...if you wouldn't mind..." she began, then shook her head. "No, no, thank you, but you've got a baby to mind - "

 

"I'd be happy to," Celia interrupted her. It wasn't her usual way, to interrupt - to be forthcoming at all. But she steadily replied, "You and your family have been so kind to us, it's the least I can do."

 

"Madame Vincent?" Isaac called from the sofa, struggling to sit up. His mother sat down beside him, pushing his shoulders down, urging him to sit, be still, _rest_. "Hello! How are you? I'm rotten - I hate being ill. It isn't any fun at all. Is that Henri?"

 

Isaac wiggled his fingers at him and Henri smiled, reaching out for him. 

 

"I'm afraid it's your sisters who will have him all to themselves," Mme. Astruc said, smoothing his hair down to his sweaty brow. "You'll have to wait 'til you're better to see him, my love."

 

Isaac made a frustrated noise that devolved into a cough as he lay down and his mother repeated the process of assailing his back. 

 

"You need to be _still_ ," Mme. Astruc reminded him as Celia gathered up the little girls and walked them down the lane. "You won't feel better if you don't rest."

 

"I _hate_ resting," Isaac whined as his sister Lisette shut the door behind them. "I'm  _always_ waiting to get better..."

 

But get better he did. It was another week before Celia heard the tell-tale knock, the call of, "Good-morning, Madame Vincent! Have you any tasks for me! I'm all better now!"

 

He looked worse than usual. Illness robbed him of what little extra flesh he had and he looked frail, like a stiff breeze would topple him. His shirt hung limply off his frame and he kept fiddling with the clasps on his braces, which threatened to slip from his shoulders.  But his eyes were bright, not with fever, but with eagerness and he was thrumming with all the pent-up energy of any child who was confined to bed for the better part of a fortnight. Some of his enthusiasm was catching.

 

"No tasks today, Isaac," Celia said. And Henri was asleep, so he didn't require any additional attention. This was what she'd been waiting for; an excuse to send him on his way and not have him back. But rather than gently advising him to return home, she crouched down so the two were eye-level. "But I've some fresh milk and butter biscuits, if you'd like."

 

Isaac's face split in a smile. "Yes, please! No raisins in the biscuits?"

 

Celia shook her head, "Not a one."

 

Isaac let out a whoop of delight and embraced her, skinny arms going around her waist, hideous face bumping into her sternum. 

 

"I'm _so_ glad to be well!" he declared triumphantly.

 

Celia smiled at him, a genuine smile as she took his hat and looked down at him. "And I'm happy to see you, Isaac. I really am."


	6. Of Menorahs and Tin Trains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hanukkah! 
> 
> Full Disclaimer: This one's more a-historical than usual, though at the end of the 19th century in the U.S. it wasn't uncommon in major cities for Jewish kids to get presents around Christmas time since Hanukkah wasn't really a "presents" holiday until the 20th century - and Papa Noël didn't become a big deal until around that time either. Still! Who doesn't love family fluff with the Astrucs?

"Absolutely not," Bram stated uncharacteristically negatively. In all honesty, Myriam was surprised - who'd have expected him to be so resolute about a matter of gift-giving? This was a bit of a role-reversal for them; ordinarily she was the one to put the kibosh on notions of "fun" as her husband and son deemed activities. After the Great Cuckoo-Clock Dismantling, she thought she'd earned the right. It was unexpected to find him so resolute on a matter of frivolous gift-giving. "No. I don't think - no."

"But why?" Myriam pressed him.

Bram hemmed and hawed and sat down in the armchair by the fire, lighting his pipe; Myriam didn't like him smoking around the children, especially Isaac, it made him cough. "My parents never gave us any presents for Hanukkah. Let _alone_  any presents from Papa Noël."

"Well, mine did," Myriam replied, cautiously since they were, after all, raised in very different households and it was thoughtful to be sensitive about it. "Not from Papa Noël, of course, but I don't see the harm - "

"Well, your parents..." Bram trailed off before he started an argument in earnest. Myriam folded her arms and raised an eyebrow, silently pressing him to continue. Bram cleared his throat. "I think it sets a bad precedent. Anyway, the other children will only twit him about it. ' _Papa Noël doesn't send presents to little_ Jewish _boys_ ,' or something like that."

"I don't think anyone Isaac's age much thinks about that sort of thing," she replied. "Only that Papa Noël comes and - "

"Comes on St. Nicholas Day," Bram reminded her, puffing his pipe and waggling his head. She rather loathed it when he smoked; he looked like an old man for all he was twenty-six. "I don't suppose you'd next advocate dressing up for Midnight Mass to appease the neighboring children, would you? Setting up a little crèche on the mantle?"

She clucked her tongue and pointedly opened a window, letting in a draft of December air. "There's such a fug about when you smoke that thing - of _course_ not, but I don't see what the harm is in getting him a little present. When I was in Rouen last I saw the loveliest little tin train - he'd  _love_ it, I know he would and you could fetch it on your way back from the firm, it wouldn't be any trouble at all."

"And a doll for Lisette?" Bram asked, looking up at her from under his thick, pale brows. "Or are we leaving her out because she's too young to ask for presents?"

"Now that you mention it..."

"Marie," Bram sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face with one hand, clenching his fist around the bowl of his pipe with the other. "I hope you know this conversation is painful for me - yes, _painful_ , because I'm loathe to deny my children anything - "

"And because you'd have just as much fun as Isaac assembling the train set," she added, a commentary which Bram ignored, not being able to contradict her.

" - but I don't want them...I'm firm on this point, Marie, I don't want them thinking that their faith...is second-best," he said, lowering the hand on his face and tapping it moodily against the arm of the chair. "Some sort of divine runner-up, shoehorning little scraps of Christmas here and there to fluff it up."

Loathe as she was to admit it, it did make sense. Damn him. But even so.

"And I don't want them looking at the neighbor children next week, racing new sleds and showing off their new dolls and tops and wondering why they've been forgotten," she said, arms folded. "You don't want a little tag from Papa Noël, fine, I shan't argue that point with you. But I want them to have _something_."

Bram didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either. He knew better than to go to bed angry, so he merely said he'd give the matter more thought and finished his pipe (giving his teeth a thorough going-over with tooth powder before Marie would let him get into bed with her). 

A few days later, when Isaac returned home from school, he chattered on and on about the day, including the Mass his class was obligated to attend, being pupils of the parish school.

"They lit up the Advent wreath," he informed them at suppertime, sopping his bread through his stew beef.

Myriam gave Bram a significant look across the table. 

"Did they now?" she asked lightly, sipping her wine with practiced nonchalance. "And what did you think of that, my love?"

"I thought it was alright," he shrugged. "Only I told Lucien Carpentier - privately, not in front of the whole class and only when we got out of the church so's not to be rude - that we had better for Hanukkah. _Eight_ flames and all. They've only got four."

Bram met Marie's glance steadily and raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" he asked.

Isaac nodded vigorously. "Oh yes! I told him our menorah was a thousand years old and Maman's Zaide Schneider brought it all the way from Germany to France."

'A thousand' was an overstatement, but he was correct in essentials. Isaac then went on to inform his parents that he'd explained to Lucien all about Judah Maccabee and his brothers leading the Hebrews in battle (with accompanying sound effects) and routing all the bad men out of the Holy Land and the miracle of the oil burning in the Temple for eight days.

"Lucien said that sounded much more exciting than the baby Jesus's being born," Isaac concluded. "When are we bringing Zaide Schneider's menorah down from the attic anyway?"

Bram pushed his chair back with a lurch. "Right now," he said, to Myriam's surprise. "Come along, Isaac, it'll want polishing before the day."

Myriam remained downstairs with Lisette, looking at her daughter in confusion (and a bit of suspicion). "What do you suppose all _that_ was about, hmm?" 

She was not long to wait; she heard the shuffling of feet upstairs and a _loud_ exclamation that echoed through the whole house. Myriam put Lisette on her him and raced upstairs, into the second bedroom where the ladder to the attic had been brought up. She squinted into the open hatch and called, "Is everything alright?"

Isaac's pale, pinched face appeared, split in an ear-to-ear grin. "MAMAN!" he shouted, though she was a scant few feet below him. "YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I'VE FOUND!"

Then he disappeared again before she even had time to guess. She heard Bram's voice, quieter than his son's, but no less enthused. "Get on down that ladder now, and take your sister - Maman can help me, I'm sure."

Isaac scrambled down at top speed, the menorah tucked under one arm. He put it down at the foot of his bed and held his arms out expectantly for his sister.

"Papa needs help," he informed his mother. 

Myriam gave Lisette to Isaac, frowning up at the ladder, but she gamely tucked her skirt aside and poked her head into the attic. Bram was illuminated by the light of a lamp he'd brought up with him. He was kneeling beside an old trunk...behind which she distinctly made out the shape of a horses's head, which she knew for a _fact_ had not been there when she'd done her Pesach cleaning.

Her husband looked at her with comically wide eyes and shrugged his broad shoulders helplessly. 

"It's the strangest thing," he said, exaggeratedly slowly and loudly. "I just... _found_ these things! Stowed away up here. I thought, well, if the children would like them..."

"WE WOULD!" Isaac shouted from down below. A pause. Then, "Lisette says yes too!"

"Has Papa Noël paid an early call?" Myriam asked in a whisper. Bram shook his head.

"No, I don't think so - what would _he_ be doing, poking around in our attic?" he asked. "I must have bought them myself and forgotten about them! But what a fine surprise, eh?"

"A FINE SURPRISE!" Isaac echoed from the bedroom. 

Myriam helped her husband and noted with some amusement that not only was there a doll and the tin train set she'd seen, but also a skin rocking horse and a little wooden train set with three pieces and rails that fitted together like a little round puzzle. 

"I thought one present each - " she started as Isaac mounted the horse and started rocking back and forth with extreme vigor, as though he was in a race. Lisette, now sitting upon the rug, hugged the doll to her chest and showed her appreciation by chewing on its yellow yarn hair. 

"Well," Bram muttered, draping his arm around her shoulders, "I was going to do so, but I thought, eh, if Isaac has that train set, Lisette will want to put her hands all over it, and he'll be cross with her - she might as well have one of her own. To spare us future headaches."

"Mmm," Myriam assented to his wisdom. "And the horse?"

"I always wanted one when I was a boy," Bram shrugged. "And once Isaac is too big for it, Lisette can make good use it, can't she?"

Myriam smiled and leaned over to give Bram a short kiss. "I suppose that does make sense - but here now! Surprises or no, I thought this whole venture was meant to polish up Zaide Scheneider's menorah?"

Isaac hopped off the horse (giving it a pat upon the nose) and picked up the menorah from where he'd placed it on the bed. "I'll do it! If you bring me the vinegar and cloth, Maman - might we put it in the window? I'll show Lucien how fine it is when we come home from school tomorrow."

Myriam bent and gave her son a kiss on the forehead, "I think that sounds an excellent plan - come along, I'll find the cleaning things for you. _After_ you've finished your supper."

Isaac made a face, "But _Maman_ \- "

"Finish your supper," she insisted, taking him by the hand to go back to the dining room. "Then polish the menorah.  _Then_ , if there's time, you and Papa might start to assemble that train set."

Isaac let out a whoop of delight and then it was him tugging his mother down the stairs. Bram followed, Lisette and her doll in his arms. 

"Now," he said to his daughter in a lecturing tone. "That isn't for Hanukkah - or any _other_ holiday, come to that. This is only because I love you. What do you think?"

Lisette smiled at him and rested her head on his shoulder, dropping her doll as she did so.

Bram kissed the top of her head and bent to pick it up. "Well, that's gratitude for you?"


End file.
